


the time is gone, the song is over

by lights_sylph



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Dream Bubbles, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Relative Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, aranea thinks about her place in the narrative, ive never written her im so sorry, light player tingz, meenah is ooc, the les8ifins reunion fic no on asked for, vague references to vriska serket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lights_sylph/pseuds/lights_sylph
Summary: Even over the reverberations of heavy waves crashing against the hill, you hear the footsteps approaching from behind you, and for the briefest moment, all you know is tranquility. It is silent, the eye of the storm, a fragile sense of serenity. As if in slow motion, you turn.That ephemeral illusion of peace shatters into a thousand pieces, irreparable as they are scattered to the wind.For the first time in your very long existence, you don’t know what to say.
Relationships: Meenah Peixes & Aranea Serket, Meenah Peixes/Aranea Serket
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	the time is gone, the song is over

Your name is Aranea Serket, and it seems to you that, these days, everything has lost its meaning—days, you’ve determined, included.

There is no guaranteed way to mark the progression of them—not of perigees, sweeps, nor even centuries. What might be construed as a millennia to the dead could quite possibly be a mere couple of weeks to the living, and terms such as “now” and “later” and “soon” have all but lost their meaning when you’re drifting aimlessly through the void in this undeserved double-afterlife bubble of yours. You see no indication that the passage of time is relevant to your existence, at all, a fact which you have grown miserably accustomed to.

Here, there is only the continuous amalgamation of underdeveloped memories from an unquantifiable amount of ghosts and dreamers, the endlessly shifting backdrop to a plain and uneventful not-life. It goes without saying that such a not-life is indescribably boring—and that’s before one tosses crippling loneliness into the equation.

Empty bubbles aren’t easy to come by, and sometimes, when you’re feeling especially lonesome, you wonder why you really bothered sequestering yourself here. There is nothing hindering you from reuniting with your team and your friends, and no spoken rule or request prohibits you from showing your face. If you must be honest with yourself, all that’s holding you back is fear and wounded pride.

And Meenah. It would be laughable to neglect to address the catalyst to your problem; it has never been a secret that your self-induced isolation is a direct product of the fear you have of seeing her again. What would be even more laughable is to pretend the reason you’re so terrified isn’t because there is a very real possibility she doesn’t want to see you—even worse, that she’s forgotten you entirely.

You know that you were both quite unliked in your session, but you’re not an idiot, and you’re big enough to admit she’s always had a way with words that is completely different from yours. She was a good motivator, though far too direct and altogether tactless, and people tended to listen to her, even if they didn’t necessarily like her. While you were and still are articulate and thorough, Meenah was short and to-the-point, possessing an attention-grabbing ferocity that never failed to turn heads. Everything from the way she spoke to the way she carried herself was admirable. Loud. Immovable. If you’re being honest, you’re a bit jealous of how easy it was for her.

Because, even unpopular as she was, she was never the blackest sheep of your session, and to call her such would be inaccurate in the strictest sense of the word.

It seems to you that you’re the one who occupied that role.

And yet, you were the one she trusted, the one she confided in, the one she sought advice from (on the rare occasions she cared enough about anything to seek your advice). You fondly recall bonding over your mutual dislike of your teammates—mocking the clown, deriding the bard. You think of the way one of her lazy, amused smiles would tug at her lips when you said something she found amusing, and how her face would light up with ecstatic glee when you snuck one of her silly fish puns into a sentence or a story. You think of how she would bemoan her boredom and exasperation whenever you talked her ear off, even though she rarely made good on her threats to walk away. For all her complaining, you always had the suspicion she somewhat enjoyed listening to you anyway.

The two of you were unlikely friends, alone together in your own respective ways. And now that all is said and done, you’re not exactly alone together anymore. You, at the very least, are simply very, very alone.

And oh, how you miss her.

You don’t think you could possibly forget what the two of you had, even if she already has. The likelihood that she’s moved on when you cannot might be doing even more to ground you to this abandoned bubble than the shame that accompanies your mortifying failure. What if, when you finally gather the courage to show your face, she leaves you where you’re standing? What if, instead of brightening, her face goes sour? What if all is permanently over between you?

It’s difficult to conjure the image of a Meenah (the version of her responsible for your double-death aside) who hates you in any capacity, but after the stunt you pulled, you know there is plenty of reason for her to. She and your descendant probably got a kick out of your misguided little ploy to heal the offshoot timeline you caused. Truly, looking back, you can’t believe you were so convinced you were capable of tackling all several thousand threats that presented themselves on your own, let alone confident enough to be infuriatingly smug about it.

So no. No, no, no. You won’t be showing your face again for some time, you think firmly, and you are fully prepared to leave it at that. You direct your thoughts to your surroundings—better to occupy your mind with corporeal things than thoughts of a girl you’re not certain you want to see again.

You’re seated underneath the bright-leafed tree in the lawn ring of what was once your hive on Beforus, a great mammoth of a thing. It was sizable enough to make obvious the fact that its size was merely an indication of how much money you had. It’s not something you’re necessarily proud of, but, in your defense, you made the most of your wealth: you filled the blocks of your residence with books. Messy piles of books, shelves stacked to the brim with books, books on the floor and on furniture, books abound.

In a setting where everything is crafted directly from your memory, your collection is, unfortunately, useless. Even you are incapable of rewriting that many stories within your own mind. You are by all means a well-read troll, and you’ve consumed your fair share of literature in your time, but it would be nearly impossible to conjure every detail of just one book, much less the full extent of your personal library.

So instead, you’re left only with one despairingly blank leather-bound journal, spread neatly across your lap.

You settle for its empty pages and the memory of a pen with ink the color of your sign instead. You write stories, and some of them read like confessions—confessions of your sins, your thoughts, your feelings. Each brush of the pen leaves a vibrant splash of blue in its wake, an admission, across the sheets of yellow-white paper.

And as you look upon the looping swirls of calligraphy that dance across the page, like paint strokes on a canvas, you can’t help the empty feeling that swallows you up and rushes through your bloodstream, from your head to your toes. Your shoulders slump with the force of your wistful sigh; you can only list your regrets so many times before you’re weighed down by how much you wish you could turn back the clock to a time much simpler than this.

You miss being alive. You miss having purpose. You miss being seen, heard, known, wanted, hated, loved.

You miss her. You miss them. You miss knowing you mean something to someone. You miss feeling more than aimlessness. You miss your session and your teammates. Even the members you never harbored much genuine affection for you’d triple-die to see again (except, perhaps, for the clown, but even he is better than no one at all. You think.)

You swallow and force your gaze skyward. In your memory, it is sunset, the sky swathed in bright violet and pink. You would be waking up at this time, were you alive and if sleep meant anything to you. You still like to sleep from time to time, but it’s not necessary, not for a ghost. A good way to pass the empty days, but meaningless beyond that. Just like everything else in this bubble.

Your hive, situated on a great hill that overlooks the nearby stemcluster, once provided a great vantage point to all that happened below. Now it’s depressing, almost motionless. The only movement is the rustling of leaves, stirred by the phantom of a gentle spring breeze. Petals fall to the grassy floor around you; your blank eyes track them with mounting grief. It’s not the first time you’ve mourned your planet, and you know better than to think it will be the last.

You cast your gaze to the ring of mountains in the distance. Beforus isn’t—wasn’t particularly known for its inhabitability. Most of its wilderness was impenetrable, even by )(er Impassioned Conservation’s forces. The empress launched multiple attempts to settle the less-than-hospitable areas, but Beforan nature was not to be trifled with—none of her efforts, valiant though they were, ever bore fruit.

Now, as you watch the clouds gathering around those distant, towering peaks, you find yourself oddly grateful that this sort of view was allowed to exist, spared from destruction at the hands of expansion and progress. You would have never pegged yourself as a preservationist when you were alive—either time, really. You suppose you’ve come to appreciate the beauty of these sorts of things, though, after pseudo-sweeps of solitude and introspection. Or maybe this is simply the first time you’ve been bored and dispirited enough to even consider it.

Regardless, you have bigger things to worry about. The clouds are beginning to darken; laden with water, they knit themselves together with surprising, unnatural speed. Your brows shoot up to your hairline with alarm—rain on Beforus is the textbook definition of unpleasant—and then confusion. You didn’t will this rain into existence. You weren’t thinking of rain at all.

You wonder briefly if it’s merely a reflection of your inner turmoil that you manifested without realizing it. You’ve never considered it extensively before, but then, you’ve known instances of the dream bubbles shaping themselves around their inhabitants’ feelings and desires. It’s altogether very possible you unwittingly triggered this sudden, drastic change during your umpteenth brooding session of the night.

...But not, you note with dread, this drastic mutation of scenery.

Your pusher leaps into your throat.

Someone has infiltrated your bubble.

You scramble to your feet and hastily brush dirt off of your knees. No one else should be here. The mountains are shifting even more rapidly now that you’ve noticed the change. They fuse with flat, soaked sand as the nearby stemcluster is overtaken by violent waves of marine blue ocean. Your stomach is filling up with dread.

It can’t be—

ARANEA: It can’t 8e.

Except, apparently, it can be.

Your memory of your home is being fused freakishly with someone else’s. The tides lap at the base of the grassy hill you’re observing them from. Everything about this is worryingly familiar, and you find yourself backing towards your hive in a sudden bout of sheer fear. If Meenah is here—

But that’s a ridiculous thought! There are a thousand different iterations of her, and the probability of the seadweller that has wandered into your bubble being Meenah at all, much less the one you knew, is slim. Is it weird you think you’d rather it be Cronus than her? You wonder if it’s weird you think you’d rather it be Cronus than her. In spite of the fact that you’ve had eons to prepare for an encounter with her, you’re so far from ready that it physically pains you.

At least there’s no sign of anyone yet. Maybe it’s not too late to retreat to your hive? Shape this memory so that it’s not so obvious you’re the one inhabiting this bubble? But before you even have the chance to develop the basis of a plan, you hear the leaves rustling behind you as the wind picks up, and then the thundering sound of rain pelting the earth floods your ears.

Your skin sizzles as it is soaked with rain, and you recoil from the acidic droplets in spite of their inability to actually hurt you. One of the perks of being dead, you suppose. It hardly even hurts; you flinch more from reflex and anticipation than physical pain.

Lightning strikes a distant tree somewhere in the forest behind you. You don’t have to watch to know its branches are being swiftly engulfed in flames; you can hear the crackling and smell the smoke as it rises.

Even over the reverberations of heavy waves crashing against the hill, you hear the footsteps approaching from behind you, and for the briefest moment, all you know is tranquility. It is silent, the eye of the storm, a fragile sense of serenity. As if in slow motion, you turn.

That ephemeral illusion of peace shatters into a thousand pieces, irreparable as they are scattered to the wind.

MEENAH: the shell are you doin here

For the first time in your very long existence, you don’t know what to say.

She looks the same as she did all those sweeps ago, still clothed in her dark shirt and pants, thin braids still trailing behind her. The heavy winds have tousled her hair; it’s messier than ever, and you can’t help but notice the downturn of her lips, the subtle clench of her fists, the accusatory tone. Is this your Meenah? Or has another version of you managed to wrong her in that timeline, too? You swallow dryly and shoot back with more cool than you feel,

ARANEA: I could ask the same of you.

ARANEA: What are you doing all the way out here 8y yourself?

She scoffs, as if the answer is obvious. You can’t help but frown. Even after all that has happened, she is still her obnoxious self. It’s so familiar that it hits you like a blow to the chest, and you’re reminded once again of how much you…

How much she…

...You’re not sure. For some reason, thinking about how you could have concluded that sentence makes you antsy. You don’t know what to feel right now. You’re barely keeping your words even as it is.

MEENAH: i asked you first serket  
MEENAH: i cant B-ELI-EV-E  
MEENAH: youve been )(-ER-E this shoal time  
MEENAH: uh  
MEENAH: assuming youre my aranea  
MEENAH: like  
MEENAH: from my timeline i mean  
MEENAH: the one where you got your ship wrecked by my alt me  
MEENAH: ringin any bells yet  
MEENAH:  
MEENAH: yo gurl what the f is you doin with your hands  
MEENAH: you need to clam down you making M-E nervous

You pause. You hadn’t noticed you were wringing your hands out in front of you like a complete idiot; you clasp them behind your back swiftly, mildly embarrassed she saw the anxious gesture for what it was. You’re the empath here, and yet you feel that she is the one reading you like an open book.

Not that you’ve ever been particularly great at sensing emotions from her—she’s too royal-blooded. Much too tyrian for your powers to function properly. Too strong-willed, too.

You remember her occasional bouts of intense emotionality wherein you could pick up some of her feelings, back when she was alive, but otherwise? Meenah has always been a bit of an enigma to you in that regard.

It’s part of what makes—made your relationship with her special; you’ve been on equal footing with her in nearly every way since hatching, social status aside.

Thinking of her in this way is doing nothing to help the intense whirlpool of clashing, conflicting emotions inside of you. You’re glad to see her, but you’re scared. Relieved to know that she’s alive (or, at the very least, not ghost-dead), yet wondering if you would have been better off as you were before. Maybe never speaking again truly was the preferable option.

But it’s not as though you can derail a conversation that has already begun. You recollect your thoughts before giving a hasty reply.

ARANEA: I’ll have you know I am perfectly clam!  
ARANEA: That is to say, calm.

You are not calm, if that much wasn’t clear already. She arches a brow in disbelief, because she can still read you with ease. Or maybe you’re just being so obvious that you might as well be astral-projecting your feelings to her.

ARANEA: I just........  
ARANEA: Wasn’t expecting to see you again, having “gotten my ship wrecked 8y your alt you,” and other such eloquently-worded occurrences. Forgive me for 8eing rightfully surprised.  
ARANEA: How did you manage to find me in the first place?  


MEENAH: 38/  
MEENAH: dunno if you noticed yet boat

She waves a hand towards what was the mountain range when this memory was entirely your own, and your pump biscuit feels like it might leap out of your throat.

She didn’t come looking for you; your bubble is merging with hers.

You knew it was unavoidable, knew it would probably happen eventually. But you’ve always felt strangely safe in this bubble, like you’re untouchable here. It’s a foolish sense of security, you know, made evident by Meenah’s sudden presence, but now it feels like any potential for calm level-headedness has spontaneously evaporated. All you can think is, I’m not ready.

Not to face any versions of your former friends, alternate timeline or otherwise. You’re already on the verge of falling apart as it is. So many pseudo-sweeps without socialization have worked wonders on you; she, on the other hand, hasn’t changed a bit—or maybe it’s that you’re not looking hard enough. Whatever it is, she doesn’t seem much different.

MEENAH: yea  
MEENAH: blue hive wasnt exactly subtle  
MEENAH: figured it was just another serket deuce copy but  
MEENAH: na  
MEENAH: saw the stemcluster and knew it was beforus  
MEENAH: besides shits pike  
MEENAH: architecturally way diff idk  
MEENAH: other serks memories were always...

She trails off. And just like that, she’s completely shut herself away. You wonder what she was going to say, why she’s trying so hard to look like she doesn’t feel whatever feelings her incomplete comment wrenched to the surface.

You were acutely aware of your descendant’s blooming relationship with her during your stay with the pirate crew; although you never saw them make a move in front of you, you weren’t stupid—you simply pretended not to notice out of the unspoken best-friend-code, because they certainly weren’t subtle.

Well… Vriska wasn’t subtle. Meenah, more often than not, appeared as though she couldn’t care less either way. You cannot imagine she is heartbroken over Vriska. You can’t imagine a Meenah that’s heartbroken at all, if you’re being honest, because the only person capable of hurting Meenah is Meenah herself.

Except that’s not true, because at some point, you managed it. If it were anyone else at any other time, you might have been a little proud of it. Now, however, you feel only crushing guilt.

MEENAH: anywave

A peculiar sort of silence follows. It’s almost chilling, the way it clings to your skin, as though tangible.

This is undeniably as uncomfortable for her as it is for you. The way she’s looking at you screams betrayal underneath the façade of nonchalance, the one you so carefully studied so you might learn to deconstruct it even without the aid of your powers.

Things you could say to her rush to the surface of your mind—anything to break this dreadful silence—but you push them back, swallow your words, avert your gaze. She turns her face toward the sea to hide the uncharacteristically vulnerable look that passes over her face, but you catch a glimpse of it anyway. On a whim, you blurt,

ARANEA: Meenah, I’m so sorry.  


MEENAH: you shoulda listfined you know  


ARANEA: ...I know.  


MEENAH: when i told you what a backwards ass glubbin INSAN-E plan you had  
MEENAH: dumbest shit you eva pulled  


ARANEA: I know.  


MEENAH: R-E-ELY thought you were smart enough to realize divin headfirst into the alpha timeline would fuck shit WAV-E UP  


ARANEA: I kn...  


MEENAH: and not even having the decency to say somefin first before you fucked off and got shot down by me  
MEENAH: my grownup shellf i mean  
MEENAH: pike i said would happen  


ARANEA: I know.  


MEENAH: all because you just had ta be important for all eight of the seconds you were alive again  
MEENAH: and so you could put everyfin at risk to try your horibubble delusional shellf aggrandizing idea  
MEENAH: which was obviously never going to WORK no matter how fancy and powerful your sylph a light bullship got to be  


ARANEA: I know.  


MEENAH: which was what me and fishka were TRYING to T-ELL you  
MEENAH: but its way too late to be havin this conversation all things conchsidered  
MEENAH: and honestly i dont even think i WANNA talk to you  


ARANEA: I know!  
ARANEA: Meenah, I kn...  
ARANEA: Wait,  
ARANEA: What?

You try to ignore the effect that has on your pusher and open your mouth, but she beats you to it.

MEENAH: oh shore at first i was pissed  
MEENAH: you just up and left to get yourself double krilled like a glubbin lunatic  
MEENAH: and refused to listfin to reason no matter how serk the sequel and i tried to convince you to get ya bass back in the bubble  
MEENAH: so it was kinda like  
MEENAH: you made ya coon so what did i care if you was lying in it  
MEENAH: but now i just stone cold do not give a fuck  
MEENAH: prolly woulda been on sight for you if i still gave as many shits as i did then  
MEENAH: maybe

Head spinning, you think faintly that that is worse than her hating you. The idea that she feels some sort of way towards you, even if it’s loathing, is inexplicably more reassuring than her feeling nothing at all.

You swallow your internal reaction, though, and keep your tone even.

ARANEA: Well, it’s always good to know when I’ve avoided dou8le-death at your hands a second time.  
ARANEA: Or rather, a third time, I suppose.

Until you start rambling.

ARANEA: In which case it would 8e… triple-death? Quadruple-death, if you take my ascension to god tier into account.  
ARANEA: The amount of times one can be killed in this context is truly astounding. Am I, 8y definition, the ghost of a ghost? Is that even a possi8le accomplishment 8y the logic of the game and the dream 8u88les? It would certainly 8e an interesting experiment to conduct, were the means of conducting it readily availa8le, and were it not so dangerous.  
ARANEA: 8ut that is all 8eside the point!

Your voice is deteriorating into the tone you adopt when you’re particularly broken up, and there go your chances of pretending you’re fine.

MEENAH:  
MEENAH: ya think  
MEENAH: cod damn serket for someone i havent seen in a gillion or so sweeps you sure aint changed at all  
MEENAH: look  
MEENAH: you need to clam down  
MEENAH: soundin like youre about ta cry  
MEENAH: dunno why im STILL listening to you babble about bullship i give zero fucks about honestly but  
MEENAH: i think im done here  
MEENAH: just wanted to see if it was reely you

She turns to leave.

She turns to leave.

She turns to

No. Why is she leaving? She can’t be leaving. No, no, no. You are not done here. You are never done, when it comes to Meenah.

But she’s going again; you’re losing her again, only this time it’s you who’s being abandoned, you left to mourn her. You, who, no matter how hard you try, aren’t capable of letting her go.

The first step she takes tears a guttural cry from your throat.

ARANEA: W8!

There’s a beat of silence as you both try to process the sheer desperation in your tone. Then,

MEENAH: what am i waiting for  


MEENAH: p sure we been done here for a couple thousand dumbshit fake sweeps gill  


ARANEA: I don’t...  
ARANEA: I don’t know.  
ARANEA: I thought that may8e we could... talk.  


MEENAH: yea you shore do a lotta that dontcha

Her tone is dismissive, but she doesn’t take another step. She doesn’t look at you, either, but you’re desperate enough that you’ll take what you can get. The fact that she’s still listening must count for something.

It’s alright. It’s okay. Her silent attention must indicate that you still have some sway over her, that you are in control here, that she won’t just walk away.

ARANEA: Meenah, please.  
ARANEA: Don’t you think it would 8e 8est if we discussed this with a level of maturity 8efitting trolls our age?  


MEENAH: uh

She seemed to be expecting something, and whatever it was, that apparently wasn’t it. You scramble to right this situation.

ARANEA: Surely holding a proper conversation would prove a suita8le alternative to this, don’t you think?  


MEENAH: what aboat this isnt proper  
MEENAH: shore is a conversation  
MEENAH: got words comin outta your mouth AND mine cod damn gill what more do you want from me  


ARANEA: Well, the fish puns, for one, could stand to go—  


MEENAH: )(-EY fuck off

She whirls toward you with surprising suddenness; you raise your hands and try to quell the annoyance that surges through you before it seeps into your tone, although your efforts will undoubtedly prove worthless. She always does this! Blowing off subjects that are important to you, even ones of such sensitivity as this one, seems to be a Meenah specialty. Her refusal to participate in these matters is as stubborn and outright as ever.

ARANEA: I’m just saying, Meenah, it’s like you’re not taking this seriously! Like you don’t even care!  


MEENAH: because im NAUT  
MEENAH: and i DONT  
MEENAH: what about us bein done here do you not G-ET gurl  
MEENAH: you tryna hold onto somefin thats already over and done with  
MEENAH: when are you gonna accept that you gotta let go of the people that are already gone

You find that you can’t describe how that knocks the wind out of you. Just like that, she takes you from mildly peeved to visibly defeated in the span, in control to spiraling out of it in the matter of a few short seconds. You let out a hushed,

ARANEA: 8ut you’re still here.

She laughs so sourly that you can taste it at the back of your throat—or maybe that’s your own grief, building in the column of your chest and constricting your throat until you can barely breathe past the feeling. The explanation you’ve been carefully constructing these past few minutes crumples underneath a tidal wave of regret and fear.

MEENAH: yea  
MEENAH: well

She lapses into impenetrable silence.

Your ears are immediately flooded with the thunderous roar of the tempestuous rainstorm; it seems so much louder now that neither of you is speaking. Not that you can pay it any mind over the sound of blood rushing to your auriculars.

Your head is spinning, a whirlwind of confusion and hurt and contradicting thoughts, and nothing—nothing is right. Nothing makes sense.

The couple of feet between you is almost chasmic, the air so thick with tension that it’s palpable. Tangible. The ocean dividing you is no less real than the one that tosses its waves against the cliffs beneath your feet. It is violent, vast, unnavigable. Viscous, like a sea of molasses. You trudge your feet along in hopes of reaching land, but there’s not an island in sight, and with each step you take you sink deeper, deeper, deeper.

Your gaze is intent as Meenah kicks a loose pebble, then takes a seat. When she slides her hands into her pants pockets, you know she is trying to conceal the tight clench of her fists. She doesn’t say a word, but you can see the pain as if it were written in bold ink across the gently curved angles of her face.

You think back to her insistence that she’s ‘over it,’ that the two of you are ‘done here,’ and it finally, finally occurs to you to consider what a blatant lie that was.

You’ve seen Meenah when she doesn’t care about something, and this? This isn’t it. If she were truly neutral, she wouldn’t have bothered to stick around, and she wouldn’t be making such a show of not caring. You can’t fathom how you let Meenah delude you into legitimately, wholeheartedly believing she just... stopped caring, knowing full well she doesn’t really function that way. You should have known better than to take her indifference for granted, because you have always been capable of recognizing her words for what they are: a mask. You were just too stubbornly resigned to pitying yourself to acknowledge it.

She’s hurt, and you know it.

You wonder who she was really talking to when she lectured you about not being able to let go.

ARANEA: 8ut you’re still here.

You repeat this softly as you tuck your skirt beneath you, taking a seat next to Meenah in the rain-soaked grass. She glances over, glances back, glances over again, like she can’t make up her mind about whether or not to face you or not. You continue, with some hesitance, and angle your head up so you can look her in the eye.

ARANEA: I’m sorry.

You say it again, just for good measure. Again. It won’t hurt.

ARANEA: I’m sorry.

You don’t break eye contact, but she does; she puts her face in her hands and rubs at her temples, like the pathetic way you say it is giving her a headache. The image is strikingly familiar, so familiar it pains you, like a blade twisting in your gut.

It hits you with sudden clarity that dying didn’t, couldn’t, won’t compare to whatever Meenah is putting you through. You wonder, not for the first or last time, if she feels worse. You wonder if that’s even possible.

ARANEA: I had my reasons for what I did, you know.  
ARANEA: My confidence in the likelihood of my success was, however misguided, indu8ita8ly a result of the influence of a version of myself I thought I admired.

When she makes no move to stop you, you continue with trepid caution,

ARANEA: Our session spent eons trapped within a tangled network of dream 8u88les. We had nothing to do 8ut o8serve ourselves in the universe we were sacrificed to 8ring into existence.  
ARANEA: And I did so with a fixation that 8ordered on the fanatic. I watched myself live a life I’d only imagined in my wildest, most private fantasies, and I was intrigued. Ecstatic, even! I saw myself, the scourge of the seas, the despotic captain over an eager and willing crew, a liar and a killer and a thief, among other things.  
ARANEA: I watched myself take, and take, and take without consequence.  
ARANEA: I fought innumera8le impossi8le 8attles, and I won. I saw myself make reckless choices and come away unharmed. I saw myself, and I wasn’t the only one, and even if it wasn’t me, it felt... nice. In a way.  
ARANEA: And this odd culmination of these terri8le, cruel traits was everything I had always shamefully yearned to 8e.

Something about the way you say this has her glancing down at you as she pries fingers away from an intentionally blank face. You incline your head to examine your hands as you twiddle them in your lap.

ARANEA: Even if it was only from a distance, it was nice to 8e noticed for something... 8ig for a change.  
ARANEA: My descendant factored into this as a source of admiration—and...

You shake your head and offer a half-hearted laugh. You really can’t sugar-coat this.

ARANEA: ...Admittedly, jealousy.  


MEENAH: jealousea  
MEENAH: huh

You carefully sidestep those implications and redirect this conversation from that particular veiled accusation a swift and precise,

ARANEA: Yes.  
ARANEA: It wouldn’t 8e inaccurate to say I envied her for her a8ility to 8e so unapologetic and 8razen.  
ARANEA: I was never as good at the act as she was.  


MEENAH: no offense boat if youre callin the twos of you bein bitches an act lemme just tell you its naut  
MEENAH: neither of you hafta pretend to be shellfish  
MEENAH: s’part of the serket G-EN-E  
MEENAH: doesnt make ya bad OAR good  
MEENAH: just makes ya trolls  
MEENAH: also mayyyybe you shouldnt admire that sorta trout in peeps 38/  
MEENAH: a beach is a beach  
MEENAH: not caring what we thought didnt automatically redeem her or anyfin  
MEENAH: not that i gave a flyin fuck about any of that to begin with eelmao  
MEENAH: or that im one to talk  
MEENAH: but just a thought  
ARANEA: ...Trout?  
MEENAH: trait cod dammit serket you off ya game tonight or somefin  
MEENAH: nevermind the meaninful and cold hard wisdom i just dropped in response to your dumbfuck identity crisis lets focus on the one shitty fish pun i just did  
MEENAH: the point is you admirin teen serk the sequel for not givin a glub what she did is sorta pike  
MEENAH: me admirin my adult self or uh  
MEENAH: oh cod dammit  
MEENAH: its sorta pike you admirin me for doing the same  


ARANEA: 8ut I did.

Her brows shoot up, all incredulity and bemusement. There’s something there beneath her fiery exterior, something touched. It feels like gratitude, and it seems so out of place that you can’t make sense of it. But all she says is,

MEENAH: shore ya did  


ARANEA: I did!  
ARANEA: Of course I did. I loathed your rash, poor decision-making and hotheaded stu88ornness all the same, 8ut it doesn’t change the fact that they are the reason we get to exist here now.

You spread your arms, gesturing not to the ‘here’ of your surroundings but to the greater ‘here’ of the dream bubbles. The afterlife. Your second chance.

(Well, more like fourth chance, but you don’t want to dwell on the semantics. If you were to, you might tell her that your glorious few moments of living had reminded you of what it was like to feel like more than a two-dimensional doll, that the dream bubbles had worn you all down until you felt unsolid and unreal. To put it simply, you don’t feel substantial anymore, and it’s killing you almost as much as the weight or your regret is. Before everything went down as it did, back when your interactions bordered on conciliatory and it wasn’t impossible to mistake the two of you for palemates, you might have opened up about this. But that time has long passed, and no one would ever suspect you two are in any quadrant now.)

ARANEA: I can admire that you were willing to face 8acklash and hatred from the team in order to preserve us from total erasure. You never seemed to care what everyone made of you.  
ARANEA: I care what everyone makes of me.

Your cross your arms over your chest and breathe, slow and controlled. The gesture is defensive, an instinct. You feel weak and exposed, and this is your ineffective protection.

ARANEA: I always have.  
ARANEA: And the one time I didn’t 8other catering to appearances, when I deserted the pretense of niceness under the greater pretense of heroism, I made a mess of things and wound up dou8le-dead at the Alternian Empress’s hands.  
ARANEA: So you’ll forgive me, Meenah, if I’m envious of those of you who starkly lack any proper sense of morality and yet, somehow, still manage to do the right thing.

You know Vriska had morals, however royally skewed they were, and you know Meenah has something bordering a moral compass, but the accusation felt suitably revelatory of your feelings on the subject. It’s not as though you consider yourself to have much of a moral compass, either. Maybe at one point you would have deluded yourself into thinking you did, but really, you know you’ve always gone along with what benefitted you the most, not the perceived ‘correct’ thing to do.

You duck your head and convey this sentiment with a,

ARANEA: I was never very good at doing the right thing, not on purpose nor on accident.

You look up from where you’ve been twiddling your thumbs in your lap, chewing the inside of your lip. You have nothing else to say. You’ve apologized, you’ve explained, you’ve confessed your regrets, and she isn’t saying anything. Why isn’t she saying anything?

You know she owes you no forgiveness, but you’d be lying if you said that wasn’t the reason you were still sitting here beside her, awaiting it anyway as she considers what you’ve said in contemplative silence. Seconds tick by, slower than quicksand; you still haven’t received a response, and so you hurry to fill the silence out of nervous habit.

ARANEA: Now that I think of it, it seems as though every time I thought I was fixing something, I was almost certainly making it worse, somehow.  
ARANEA: You know what’s funny?  
ARANEA: I was never good at 8eing 8ad.  
ARANEA: And I was always 8ad at 8eing good.  
ARANEA: Where does that put me, Meenah?  
ARANEA: I am not a hero. I am not a villain. What, then, is my role?  
ARANEA: Do I even have a part to play?  
ARANEA: Am I just a part of the ensem8le?  
ARANEA: A 8ackground character?  


MEENAH: wh  
MEENAH: hol up  


ARANEA: Or is my existence well and truly meaningless? Every nota8le thing I have ever done was erased. I am not remem8ered.  
ARANEA: Why am I here, Meenah? What is my purpose?

And suddenly you’ve talked yourself into a fit. Your breathing is heavy, audible over the receding storm. Meenah is staring at you like you’ve grown a third horn, and she doesn’t scoot closer, but she lays a hand on your shoulder and says,

MEENAH: yea okray first off  
MEENAH: i dont have a clue what ya porpoise is  
MEENAH: dont reely care either  
MEENAH: second off i did naut come here to get a fin full a existential dread  
MEENAH: can i be real wit you a sec

You take a shudderingly deep breath and slowly relax your grip on your skirt. Meenah’s hand remains on your shoulder, both comforting and nerve-wracking at once.

ARANEA: Yes. Okay. Of course.

She shoots you a look, arched brows and just a hint of concern.

MEENAH: you dont  
MEENAH: mean anyfin

It knocks the wind out of you, but before you can process and properly internalize this, she presses on.

MEENAH: no one here does  
MEENAH: or ever will again  
MEENAH: sea

Her face scrunches up, like she’s struggling to word whatever she wants to say next in a way that won’t make your shoulders tense underneath her touch. Meenah never treads this carefully, not unless it is a very delicate manner, and you find yourself feeling both grateful and patronized. You are not a wiggler in need of comforting, if that’s what she thinks, but you appreciate her caution. You’re warmed by her caution.

MEENAH: sea  
MEENAH: youre D-EAD  
MEENAH: aint got nofin to do cept sit here in the afterlife and fuck around  
MEENAH: everyfin you did stopped matterin sweeps ago  
MEENAH: learned that the hard way  
MEENAH: i mean  
MEENAH: i hated runnin around with your  
MEENAH: with vriska  
MEENAH: pike shore it was fun at first but  
MEENAH: shit got boring reel fast  
MEENAH: and i wanted to DO somefin  
MEENAH: sides ‘explore’ more of those dumbass memories  
MEENAH: im naut  
MEENAH: good  
MEENAH: at sitting back when i could be on the front lines  
MEENAH: you know this 38/

You do. You wonder where this is going, and convey this sentiment by scrunching up your brows.

MEENAH: yea  
MEENAH: so i went to fight lord kingfish with fishkas ghost army  
MEENAH: different fishka though ill explain later

You desperately try not to react to the implication that she is willing to talk to you again later, even as your pusher skips a beat. There is no way she’s forgiven you so quickly. The abridged version of your daily identity crisis would never have made your Meenah pity you like this.

But maybe, you think, your Meenah is different. You’ve changed; what’s to say she hasn’t? The realization does more to reassure you than even her carefully-selected words and hesitant touch do. You were so quick to assume she wasn’t any different, that she wasn’t capable of change, that you didn’t even realize you missed the subtle ways she already has.

ARANEA: So...  
ARANEA: You’re saying the “ghost army” plan worked?  


MEENAH: uh  
MEENAH: naut exactly  
MEENAH: conchsiderin im still here  
MEENAH: i mean muscleguys gone so theres that i  
MEENAH: guess?  
MEENAH: yea he and vriska uh  
MEENAH: they got sucked into a vacuum

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline.

ARANEA: I’m sorry, what?  


MEENAH: vacuum  
MEENAH: big black hole  
MEENAH: poof

She accentuates this onomatopoeia with a hand motion that seems to convey an explosion, which does not seem scientifically accurate but you suppose gets the point across.

ARANEA: Well.  
ARANEA: That’s certainly one way to take down a villain.  


MEENAH: yea no squidding  


ARANEA: Squidding? Really, Meenah?  


MEENAH: ey!  
MEENAH: lay off 38(

She mock-pouts; you laugh, and the sensation is nearly foreign to you. Something long-slumbering stirs deep within your chest, waking again at the sound. You haven’t felt this way in what must be millennia. You haven’t felt so fiercely in even more.

And you haven’t smiled with this degree of sincerity since the last time you saw Meenah—not the phone call before you abandoned ship to execute the worst plan in your entire existence, but the day before you made the decision to leave.

You feel so warm.

You glance down at her hand as it slides off your shoulder, and then, without pausing for thought, you throw yourself forward and wrap your arms tight around her middle.

She makes a sound, a sort of ‘oof,’ and instinctively draws back in surprise. Your pusher plummets for just a moment as she hesitates, eyes blown wide.

MEENAH: uh  
MEENAH: shit  


ARANEA: I’m sorry!  


MEENAH: uh  


ARANEA: I shouldn’t have—  
ARANEA: We weren’t even done, I—  
ARANEA: Fuck. I’m so sorry.  


MEENAH: no no just  
MEENAH: ugh fuck it  
MEENAH: just

She seems to hesitate, eyes averted to the wet grass beneath you.

MEENAH: cmere

And then she pulls you forward into a rib-crushing hug. You choke on another apology, and she buries her head into the side of your neck, so close you can feel the slight vibrations as she shakes.

You squeeze back and swallow what might be tears. Her arms around you and yours are around her and nothing, nothing beats whatever emotion is coursing through your body. It is indescribable. Bright, warm, encompassing. You have never felt realer, more whole, than you do now.

Meenah smells nice. Unique. Saltwater, maybe a hint of coconut. You take in the sensation of her touch like it’s the last chance you’ll ever get, tangle your hands in the sleeves of her shirt and breathe. Steadily, softly. You would have no complaints if she suggested you stay like this forever.

The gentle rays of pink moonlight wash over you as the clouds part, revealing a night sky so bright and full of stars that you close your eyes on instinct.

It is a mistake to think that things are suddenly going to be okay between the two of you, that this conversation is over with. But you allow yourself to make it all the same, to imagine that you never have to let go.

Your name is Aranea Serket, and even if time means nothing, even if nothing means anything, you can’t help but feel that every second you waited and every hardship you endured was, for this, worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> whoo! my first published fic since my lapidot craze in 2017 and it's a 2020 les8ifins reunion. my taste in ships still seems to be bad bitch x repressed nerd and you know that's okay. 
> 
> i have never written meenah, and for that i sincerely apologize. i'm a diehard serket fan but i have not given meenah enough thought honestly, so i'm so sorry meenah fans. i ruined ur girl
> 
> this fic was written for my friend abel. idk why i thought they would like this, but abel if ur reading this, i care you. MWAH. that's for u
> 
> also dream bubbles are wack does anyone know how they even work?? somebody give me their 5 page essay on dream bubble mechanics asap so i can write the next chapter of this without second guessing every hc i have about homestuck afterlife
> 
> also tysm for making it this far i know it couldnt have been easy


End file.
